


Clay

by Dogsled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Dean Winchester, Because it's technically Castiel, Dean Misses Castiel, Dean Winchester In Love, Dean Winchester Makes Bad Decisions, Dom/sub Undertones, Gay Bar, Golems, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, NSFW Art, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, PLEASE read the summary, Post-Season/Series 12, Presumed Dead, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sam Winchester is a Saint, Switch Destiel, The Empty, Werewolves, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/pseuds/Dogsled
Summary: Dean doesn’t cope especially well following Castiel’s death in 12x23. He’s moody, retreating to the Bunker’s dungeon with booze and not much else. It’s a worry for Sam, who’s never seen his brother go on such a bender before. He sneaks Dean food, then bedding when he realizes that Dean isn’t sleeping in his bed either, but his concern only grows when Dean does show his face: gaunt, and thin, and gray to the elbows with clay dust.It’s just an art project, Sam supposes. He figures Dean needs to get it out of his system and leaves him to it. Besides, he has a Nephilim to raise, and Jack takes up a lot of his time.But when Dean reemerges with a new friend made entirely out of clay, Sam wishes he stepped in a little sooner.Especially since that new friend looks almost exactly like Castiel.tl;dr : In which Dean is pining so hard for Cas he makes a golem of him, and Sam gets pretty mad.





	1. The Name of God

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the awesome ricketyjukebox and robotsnchicks. I love you both immensely!  
> Beautiful art by Blu. (No link, sorry!)

Four days in the clay dried out and cracked clean across Castiel's half formed mouth. Dean tried everything he could to patch it back together: rubbed clay into the ragged gaps, bought an air moisturizer, but nothing he did worked. In the end he had to concede defeat, scrap the whole thing, and start again.

 

He spent the entire week working on it. Then the next. He barely ate or drank or slept. If Sam hadn't brought him meals every so often Dean would surely have perished there, slathered brown up to his elbows with clay, his face a mess from tears with ugly smudges where he'd used the back of his hand to rub them away.

 

The face took the longest.

 

Dean had photographs of Castiel, of course, the odd one taken here and there, but it turned out there weren't nearly as many as he'd have liked. Now that he had reason to remember him, and no ability to take new ones, the lack of visual evidence of Cas' presence in their lives was jarring. If he hadn't been so wrapped up in his misery, Dean would have spent the time following Sam about with a camera instead to make sure he still had photographs of his brother should he ever need them.

 

Past a few excitably messy art lessons in one school or another, Dean had never had much use for clay. It was pointless stuff. It didn't work quite the way he wanted it to either. Each of Castiel's hands had taken him ten days of meticulous work, and he still wasn't happy with either of them. The left was too big, and the thumb on the right was crooked. Then seemed too smooth and strangely awkward, not at all like human hands. Besides, Dean could barely remember anything about Castiel's hands except that they were soft. He hoped these hands would be soft.

 

The face, too, was a nightmare of odd angles and lines. Every time Dean carved in one of Castiel's frown lines with a palette knife, he recoiled from his work, rubbed it out with a wet thumb, and started again. The eyebrows jutted out too far, the nose was too pointy. When it was as done as Dean was sure he could make it without ruining it, the whole thing tilted slightly to one side quizzically. Clay Cas looked unhappy, and Dean wasn't remotely satisfied with the lips. He thought they ought to be wider somehow, or maybe flatter.

 

Working on clay Castiel was meant to be a catharsis, a way to fill the time after his death. In fact it only made Dean feel worse. It forced him to dwell on what he'd lost, every minute of every day, robbed him of the opportunity to stop mourning and move on. If anything, he was more miserable when he was finished because in his opinion he'd failed yet again. The sculpture barely resembled Castiel at all.

 

No, that wasn’t quite right. Dean had always nursed the idea that this was more than an art project. It was always in the back of his mind that he might take his work that one step further, no matter how unwise Sam would have told him it was to do so.

 

No matter how ugly his clay man had turned out, a little bit of magic could work wonders.

 

It wasn't the skill of the artist, ultimately, that brought the golem to life, but the intensity of emotion in its crafting. Dean had poured so many hours, so much of his heart - even some of his blood - into the sculpting of his creature, that it seeped into the clay itself, creating a likeness out of Dean’s longing. The secret name of God – Chuck Shurley – scrawled in dark lines of Hebrew on the scroll in its mouth, spidered out into the clay form, turning its brown clammy skin a warm tan, its flat sticky hair a tousled ebony, and its dull empty eyes a startling blue.

 

Exhausted, weak as a kitten from his exertions, Dean sprawled on the floor beneath the creature, which looked back down at him with such heartbroken sadness that Dean was certain - for a moment - he had brought the real Castiel back.

 

He forgot himself.

 

"Cas?"

 

"Cas," the creature echoed. He spoke so perfectly in Castiel's tone that Dean could have cried because the emptiness of sentiment was so much worse.

 

He'd made a mistake doing this; a terrible mistake. This wasn't Castiel. He'd created a torture device for himself, a monster who looked and sounded like his friend, yet was anything but. It stood there, every inch of naked clay made flesh, and waited once more for him to speak, but Dean had no words--they stuck in his throat every time he tried to form one, his throat and heart a misery of aching pain.

 

One of them had to speak. Eventually, it was the creature who grew tired of waiting. But if it had Castiel's impatience, it was only because Dean had given it to him.

 

" _Dean._ "

 

Something else Dean had given the creature, his own name as its master, inscribed beneath the first on the scroll in its mouth.

 

Dean fled.


	2. Not Your Purpose

The golem caught up to him in his room. It had dressed in the clothes that Dean had prepared, all of them chosen in a hurry by a man too distracted by his grief to be selective. The tan leather jacket was one Sam had abandoned years ago. It had grown too small for him in the increasingly muscular breadth of his arms. The white button down shirt underneath was much the same, but the too long sleeves had been folded up and hemmed down high enough that they were out of sight, stitched by hand as Dean had learned to do years ago. The blue jeans were Dean's and they were just a little too tight on the creature, squeezing snug around muscular thighs. The golem wore no shoes or socks because Dean hadn't thought that far ahead, but it did have one of Dean's old navy ties on. It wouldn’t escape Dean's heartbroken notice that the tie was done up the right way round with the tail neatly tucked away.

 

It opened the door with surprising care and quietly peered inside. Dean was lying on the bed face down, a pillow dragged over the back of his head. He wasn't crying, if only because he was all out of tears, so he heard the door clearly enough, and knew it was the creature who had come to find him. Sam was out--Dean wouldn't have cast the spell with his brother here. It was too intimate, too personal, especially if everything went wrong.

 

The problem was that so far everything was going so, so right. This was what he’d wanted: a perfect Cas doll; a replacement for what he’d lost. Except it wasn’t. From the first twitch of the creature’s brow Dean had known he wouldn’t be able to accept the golem. It wasn’t Castiel and it never would be. There was no angelic being residing within those cold clay walls. He’d made a lifesize Sim of his friend, and all it did was tear his unhealed wounds open all the further.

 

Why hadn’t Sam stopped him? This was a mistake, surely his brother had known that. Surely, surely he could have said something to prevent Dean from tumbling down this rabbit hole head first?

 

“ _Come on, Dean. It doesn’t even look like him. Just give it up._ ”

 

“ _I’ve found us a job. Remember the job?_ ”

 

“ _Dean, come on. You have to stop._ ”

 

“ _Please, Dean. This isn’t right. I feel like I’m losing you too._ ”

 

All things Sam had said. Fuck.

 

A hand fell on Dean’s shoulder. It was gone instantly when Dean twisted bodily away from it, but by now the creature had his attention. Golem Cas. Fake Cas. Casbot.

 

Casbot looked down at him, his jaw tight, his eyes brimming with concern. His hands were curled ever so slightly at his sides, as though he were resisting the urge to reach out to touch Dean again.

 

In a hurry, Dean pulled himself into a seated position, scrambling to put his back to his headboard, his knees pulled high in front of him protectively. Obligingly, Casbot sat on the end of his bed as though invited, and his shoulders slumped minutely.

 

“You shouldn’t have brought me to life if this isn’t what you wanted,” it told him.

 

Dean didn’t speak, didn’t answer. After a moment Casbot continued without him.

 

“What is it you want from me, Dean? What were you thinking?”

 

“I just wanted my friend back,” Dean answered. It wasn’t that hard to speak as he’d initially supposed, and he found confidence in that. This was no worse than a hunt, facing some ruined version of himself with black eyes. Though it looked like him, talked like him, this wasn’t Cas. Everyone he ever lost came back to haunt him some way or another, though, so why should this be such a big deal? He was just getting it out of the way on his own terms.

 

“I just want my friend back,” he repeated more confidently.

 

“I’m not him. I’m not Cas.”

 

“Castiel,” Dean corrected. “No, you’re not Cas.”

 

Casbot sighed in just the way that Cas would under the circumstances, a kind of dull exasperation that only Dean, it seemed, could summon from him.

 

“Then why?”

 

“Because I’m Dean fucking Winchester,” Dean snapped. “When I have terrible ideas I like to follow them through all the way, alright? Why stop now?”

 

Casbot shook his head, his face angled down toward his knees, his hands folded in his lap. Dean, meanwhile, raised one hand and pushed fingers and thumb into the corners of his eyes until both hurt. It kept him from crying, though it was getting harder to resist the pull of despair by the second.

 

Then it asked the question that Dean was dreading.

 

“What are you going to do now?”

 

He didn’t have an answer for that. Oh, he could take out the magic scroll, put the golem back to sleep, but it would still look like Castiel, frozen and dead with his mouth hanging open. Dean wasn’t sure he could do that; wasn’t sure he could burn or bury something with his friend’s face when – so recently – he’d done exactly that.

 

The bed lurched underneath him. A moment later, soft fingers grazed the back of his hand, then caught the hard line of his jaw. Dean opened his eyes. He was shaking and the tears were coming despite his efforts to the contrary, burning hot red lines down his already raw and clay scrubbed cheeks. He didn’t say a word, mutely lowering his hand, turning it so that his fingertips rest against Casbot’s chest. The golem bent down until Dean’s eyes crossed, kissing tenderly at the sting of previous tears before new ones could burn fresh tracks in his skin.

 

Dean couldn’t fight it, didn't question it. He was so desperate for just this that he submitted to it willingly. But when the creature’s mouth found his own, he finally found the effort to push it away.

 

“Stop.”

 

It was obedient, but only just. The soft - so soft - lips that had been kissing him thinned in concern as the golem of the angel he loved perched on the edge of his bed again.

 

The guilt was terrible, but the flood had halted for the time being. Dean’s voice was raw with emotion anyway.

 

“I didn’t make you for that,” he told it, miserably. “I don’t want you to think that I’m some sort of depraved…”

 

“Forgive me,” Casbot interrupted, “but when you made me, you filled me with your love. I know what you want from me.”

 

Dean resisted the description, rubbing his hand across his mouth. It tasted like raw earth—his hand and his mouth. “Unrequited love,” he said, firmly. “Unrequited, as in not returned. We never…”

 

“But you wanted to.”

 

Dean was filled with the urge to make a run for it again. But where would he go? He couldn’t run away from himself, nevermind this facsimile of his friend. These were his consequences, weren’t they? He’d created a monster and become one himself in the process. And man, Dean was sick of being the real monster at the end of the story. Look at what he was doing now: playing Frankenstein Ken dolls with his best friend’s face—it was far from being normal.

 

“You wanted to,” Casbot repeated, when Dean didn’t answer.

 

“I don’t know what I wanted,” Dean snapped. His voice was so hard it could have shattered diamonds. “I didn’t know what he wanted. I don’t…”

 

“If you didn’t know then I wouldn’t,” Casbot interrupted. “I know that I love you, and I know that you love me.”

 

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. They looked at each other until Dean couldn’t stand it any more. His friend’s face was looking back at him, but Cas wasn’t there. Cas was gone. They’d burned him.

 

Before he could look away, Casbot crushed his mouth against Dean’s again, and this time it took too much effort for Dean to resist, to push away the thing he truly wanted; the love he’d unknowingly craved.

 

It wasn’t real.

 

The kiss was plenty real, though. The kiss was wonderful, smooth; urgent but affectionate at the same time. There was something teasing about it, encouraging Dean to part his lips and rub his tongue against Casbot’s eagerly. He still tasted like earth, but now Dean could taste the subtleties of it: beneath the fragrant, mushroomy earthiness was the salt of ocean, an icy fall of glacier-fresh water, and something that was even a little bit fruity, like cider apples. It wasn’t how he expected Cas to taste, but it would do.

 

When Dean did come back to his senses, he pushed away far more gently, his eyelids dragging as he put a few inches between their mouths. The golem was reluctant, dragging its teeth against Dean’s bottom lip as he pushed gently on its chest, but it eased back anyway, still looking at him with a desperate kind of devotion.

 

Thank God, then, that Sam chose that moment to come back early, presumably with Jack in tow. The Nephilim was like a duckling: Sam had been the first person he’d ever seen and he’d imprinted on him almost instantly. They were inseparable now.

 

“Dean? You down here?”

 

Casbot answered for him, rising up off the bed as he did. “He’s in here, Sam.”

 

That rushed Sammy along. The door swung open and Sam flung himself into the room, gun raised and pointed at the golem, expression some mix between shock, anger, and pure panic.

 

Dean came between them warily, then reached out to place his hand on top of the barrel of Sam’s gun, guiding it away from both of them as he desperately projected calm. “It’s okay.”

 

Sam looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was.

 

“You really did it? You really… I didn’t think you were going to actually do it. Jesus, Dean. How—“ Sam shook his head, rattled. “What did you do?”

 

“Doesn’t matter. He isn’t Cas.”

 

“Then turn it off!” Sam ordered. When he looked back at Dean, though, his expression faltered. “You don’t want to turn it off, do you?”

 

Dean didn’t say anything.

 

“He isn’t Cas, Dean. I don’t know how you made him look like Cas when you’ve never gone to an art class in your life, but he’s not Cas. He’s a monster. A _golem._ ”

 

“ _My_ golem,” Dean said, finally. “Which means it’s my decision what to do with him. This is good, Sam. That thing kicked ass, remember? It was invulnerable to bullets. Besides, we could use the extra help.”

 

It was a crappy idea. Dean knew that. But there was something about the way the last of the kiss lingered on his tongue, that reminder of Castiel wrapped up in the warmth of a body embracing him, that felt like there was some hope of comfort to be had in this. Dean hated himself for it, maybe hated the golem a little more, but would it really be ethical to take life away from something when he’d only just given it?

 

Certainly the truth was that looking at Casbot, at blue eyes full of life that Dean could choose to take away in an instant, Dean regretted playing God without thinking about the consequences. Who was he to give life? Who was he, or Sam, to take it away?

 

But it hurt. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to look at Castiel-but-not-Castiel. There was a kind of poetic justice in that, as though Dean felt he deserved to be punished for what he’d chosen to do. Or perhaps this was his punishment for failing to protect Cas in the first place. Nothing else had hurt enough, but this? This promised hurt aplenty.

 

Needless to say that when it came right down to it, he wasn’t sure he could watch the golem ‘die’. At least not yet. It was too hard, and Sam knew it too. Didn’t stop his brother glaring at him fiercely for an entire minute before he gave in.

 

“Fine, but you’re feeding it.”

 

“I don’t require food,” Casbot noted.

 

Dean knew that wasn’t the point. He had a new pet monster, and Sam wanted nothing to do with it. Needless to say, Dean wasn’t convinced that he wanted to have anything to do with it either.


	3. Keeping Hope Alive

By the time he emerged, clay angel in tow, Sam was sitting in the kitchen hawkishly watching Jack as he devoured a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was practically the only thing the kid would eat. His brother’s scowl deepened when their eyes met, and furrowed even more fiercely when Dean took a seat.

 

Jack blinked up at them both, said absolutely nothing, and dug back enthusiastically into his sandwich.

 

“Okay,” Dean said bitterly. To be fair, he didn’t have a particularly good relationship with Jack as it was. Maybe it was the years between them. Maybe it was the fact that the kid was Lucifer’s son. Maybe it was because Jack barely talked to him—not that that was helped by Dean hiding away with his clay man for the last… How long had it been?

 

Whatever it was, though, they didn’t get on because of it, and both of them had accepted that fact. Casbot came to sit beside him, so close that their knees bumped together.

 

Sam looked at them accusingly as he dumped the ingredients for sandwiches in front of him in furious silence.

 

While Dean busied himself with the knife, he couldn’t help but be aware of Casbot so close beside him, as uncomprehending of personal space as the original. Dean didn’t want to correct him. Unlike the original, the golem would obey him absolutely and keep his distance. That wasn’t what Dean wanted at all.

 

With that realization, he set the knife down and reached out underneath the table to lay his hand on Casbot’s knee. The golem seemed relieved, and Dean was able to go back to making his sandwich in peace.

 

Relative peace, anyway. 

 

“Why does it look like Castiel?” Jack asked, once he’d finished nibbling his way around his crusts.

 

Dean didn’t have an answer for that, but as he stuffed his face full of his own sandwich, Casbot leaned forward. “Because Dean needed me to.”

 

“I guess that makes sense,” Jack answered, beaming.

 

Dean squinted at his sandwich. Did it? Maybe in Jack’s weird little mind. Dean had no idea what was going through the kid’s head from one moment to the next.

 

Sam didn't remain silent for long either.

 

“So what? You can’t seriously think you’re going to take him on hunts with us?”

 

“Why not?” Dean asked, between mouthfuls of sandwich, and before swallowing. “He’s stronger than a human being, invulnerable—“

 

“Yeah, I got all that. But it’s not good for  _ you _ , Dean. The sooner you give up on this fantasy… I don’t even know where you got it into your head to try! He’s not Cas. He’s not even an angel. He’s not ever going to be anything but a reminder of what happened; of losing them both.”

 

“We didn’t  _ lose _ Cas, Sam. You lose your keys. You lose your soul. They go somewhere. Cas  _ died _ , and you heard what that Reaper said about where he went. He was our brother, so they did to him what they were so desperate to do to us.”

 

“And I’m sorry. I am. But this isn’t the solution.”

 

“It’s  _ my _ solution,” Dean stormed. The sandwich tasted like sawdust in his mouth. There was no joy in food any more. Not even pie.

 

Under the table, Casbot’s hand fell on his thigh, and Dean glanced briefly across at him. Nothing in the golem’s expression suggested he’d done anything, so Dean looked back at Sam. He didn’t do much more than tighten his jaw as the golem’s fingers curled inward, offering comfort.

 

“You can’t honestly mean that. You can’t really believe that going round the country with Fake Cas in the back seat is going to be good for you. For us.”

 

“Really?” Dean could see his way out of this conversation, now, and he pounced on it. “So this is about you, right? About how  _ you _ can’t deal?”

 

“Don’t turn this around on me,” Sam snapped.

 

“Why not? You’re the one who has a problem with it.”

 

“You—“

 

Sam cut himself off. Instead he stared at Dean in confusion and disappointment, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, or that Dean would take such an inflexible position. Sam obviously knew better than to argue with it. No, Sam would have to figure that the only way to get Dean to accept what a terrible idea this was was to let him have his own way for a bit. Things would go wrong—they always did.

 

And didn’t Dean know it.

 

After a moment or two, Dean decided to let him off the hook. He sat up, twitching his chin toward Jack.

 

“How’s the little one’s education going?”

 

Sam took the olive branch, though he spoke through gritted teeth.

 

“You’re kidding, right? He wants a shortcut to everything, then gets impatient when you try and work through it to him. I tried explaining Fake News to him yesterday—“

 

“Yeah? How’d that go?”

 

“He thinks bi-partisan politics is pointless. He said “Why waste time and money on two years of campaigning when a cage match would have the same result?”.”

 

Dean snorted. “He’s not wrong. Guess that’s the archangel in him, huh?”

 

“It’s not violence,” Sam reminded him. “He just thinks it’s bad use of resources; misplaced energy. He said that if we stopped quibbling over which septuagenarian is living in some mansion every four years we could have solved the world’s problems a century ago. ”

 

“Well. Can’t say we haven’t raised him right.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Kid really might change the world for the better.”

 

Sam’s lips pulled into a wry line.

 

“What?” Dean asked, fearing the worst.

 

“He also said that if elephants had any sense they’d go back to using elephant guns, and shoot the poachers back.”

 

Dean snorted beer out of his nose. When he’d recovered, his nose stinging and nostrils flared, golem Cas looking ever more concerned at his side, he couldn’t help but reply: “Lucifer’s kid, huh? Bright as a button; a real child prodigy.”

 

Jack jerked his head up out of his book and looked across at them, a flash of gold sparking behind his dark eyelashes.

 

“Don’t talk about him.”

 

Dean’s humor evaporated. He’d forgotten: they didn’t mention the L word. More than that, it was a reminder that whatever they said, even if it didn’t seem like it, Jack was always listening. Scratching his temple, Dean looked down into his lap.

 

Sam, who had become Jack’s foster dad after his real father stabbed his adopted father in the back, broke the silence and made the peace. Nine times out of ten, Jack listened to him unquestioningly.

 

“He just forgot, Jack. Dean’s having a hard day.”

 

As if he were seeing them for the first time all over again, Jack looked at Dean and Casbot each in turn, clearly measuring the situation, then fixed his attention on Dean..

 

“You made a man out of clay, like Adam. Did it make you feel more like God?”

 

Dean felt his throat tighten. Sam was staring a hole in the side of his head.

 

Jack just frowned. “I suppose there is a resemblance to Castiel. But not inside.”

 

Dean curled his hands into fists. Casbot stroked his thigh comfortingly, sensing his unease.

 

“You’re wasting your time,” Jack continued. “You’ll see him again.”

 

Dean couldn’t believe his ears. Sam looked over too, just as stunned. It sounded ridiculous. Cas was in the Empty. He was  _ gone _ . Making this golem out of clay was supposed to be Dean’s way of coming to terms with that fact, but here was Jack offering platitudes he barely understood--or maybe understood too well. That was the problem with Jack, after all. He had a mystical quality about him, and just like every hack psychic Dean had ever met, he never quite expressed enough to tell the whole story.

 

“Say what?”

 

Jack shrugged. “Castiel’s story hasn’t yet ended,” he told them, cryptically, before returni ng his focus entirely to his book.

 

When Dean looked back at Sam, his brother was wearing a stern expression. “Don’t go getting ideas, Dean. Half the time he can’t tell fiction from reality. I mean—he still thinks Elizabeth Bennett is a real person. This is real life. There are no character arcs.”

 

“Keeping the hope alive as usual,” Dean snipped, bitterly. “Thanks, Sammy.”

 

“You’re welcome.”


	4. Judges and Warriors

It didn’t take long for Dean to decide that he needed to be away from Sam’s judgemental looks. Besides, he hadn’t been on a hunt for months now, and the need to hit the road and kill something was practically intolerable. 

 

One thing was for sure, though: if he sat at home with Casbot in the corner watching him watch Netflix for even one more day, he was going to end up doing something he regretted. The way Casbot touched him so casually - a comforting slide of fingers here, a light kiss when nobody was looking = was enough to make Dean yearn at once for something more almost as much as he longed to have Castiel back; to have  _ this _ with Castiel. It was at once the pinnacle of temptation and a cruel reminder of what he’d never have, and being cooped up with it was driving Dean a whole new brand of stir crazy.

 

With the real Cas beside him it would have been a milk run. Hell, the werewolves would have pissed themselves taking one good look at the angel and Dean could have picked them off easily.

 

But the golem complicated matters. Dean found that out the hard way.

 

They entered the club together, Casbot so close to his side that Dean could smell the raw earth on him, a scent that had become ever more intoxicating in the Impala on the way here. It was hot under the lights, the black walls making the interior at once claustrophobic and intimate. Beyond the golem’s scent Dean could smell stale beer, sweat, and sex.

 

Normally, he wouldn’t have come here with anyone, perhaps not even alone and certainly never with the real Cas. But with neutral backup at his side, Dean felt much safer invading a possible werewolf sanctuary.

 

There weren’t just wolves here, of course. Another hunter and prey scenario was being played out at the bar, on the dancefloor, and wherever it was possible for people to sit down. Dean imagined the most obscene of it went on behind the door marked “Sirs”. Suffice to say, he had no intention of visiting the men’s room while he was here, no matter how great the calling.

 

“We should dance,” Casbot suggested, blue eyes roaming the room with interest.

 

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Dean answered, shutting him down.  _ Dance? _ On the actual dancefloor? In a gay club? No way was he there yet.

 

The golem seemed disappointed and followed him to the bar instead.

 

Leaning against the polished counter, Dean squinted around the room, getting a measure of the place: its exits and dangers. A spiral staircase climbed to an overhead balcony, and Dean couldn’t see all the way to the back wall from where he stood.  On the ground floor there were booths at the back from which people could see but not  _ be _ seen; ideal for a sneaky hand job, but also useful if you were a monster who hunted on the weak. Until he’d explored the whole place, peeked into all those dark corners, it would be an unpredictable venue for a fight.

 

And then there were the civilians. Which were human, and which wolf? This place had attracted Dean's attention because in the last couple of weeks three people had been killed in mysterious animal attacks after leaving the club, but that probably only meant there was one rogue werewolf here. A punter, probably, shooting his fish in a willing, promiscuous barrel. If the club was run by weres, they would be more aware of their problem than he was, knowing full well that the news would draw hunters and ready to shut it down before it went that far. They’d know who he was long before he was able to pick them out of the crowd. 

 

If it were one rogue though, nobody would stop him until a hunter stepped in. A hunter like Dean.

 

He was jerked out of his deep, important thoughts by a man’s voice nearby, spoken clearly enough to be heard over the music.

 

“I saw you from the other side of the room. You here alone?”

 

Casbot looked at Dean as Dean looked at him. The man was pressed up against the golem’s side, one arm barricading him from Dean, ostensibly to hold his place at the bar, but far more blatantly to separate them. His eyes were fixed on Casbot’s  face, and he didn’t so much as turn his head to acknowledge Dean beside him.

 

Casbot waited for Dean’s instructions. The presence of the man seemed to be making him uncomfortable--not that he seemed to notice, so high on his own importance as to miss the fact that he was unsettling the target of his interest.

 

“Naw,” the man crooned. “Don’t look at him. Come on, man. We could have fun. I’ll show you a good time.”

 

“Hey,” Dean said. Then “Hey!” louder, as he jammed his shoulder back into the space, forcing the man to either back off or get his arm broken. “That line ever work for you, asshole?”

 

The man grinned a ferrety grin. Dean didn’t like the look of him much, and he smelled worse than his attitude. “More often than you think. Lotta guys who just want to make their “straight” buddy jealous. What about it, gorgeous?”

 

“Hey,” Dean said, jostling the man a little further. “You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. Go do your thing to some other poor schmuck.”

 

“You don’t own him,” the guy sneered.

 

“Actually he does,” Casbot said, clearly. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. “And if he wishes for you to leave me be, then I suggest you do so.”

 

Dean felt a rush of desire. Clay monster or not, the idea of Cas belonging to him turned him on. Or maybe it was all the hormones flying round the place: the pure, uncloseted smell of sex.

 

He put his arm around his golem, leaning right into him possessively. Ferret guy, sensing there was no redeeming himself, scowled and backed away, and a minute later Dean was paying for their drinks, crowding Casbot as he led him to a seedy-looking couch with an imperious view of the club.

 

Casbot sat so close to him that they touched almost all the way down one side. As usual, his hand fell possessively on Dean’s thigh, and even though they were in public, Dean made no effort to guide it away. If public displays of affection were going to work anywhere for him, then undercover at a gay club would probably be it. He could let himself go a little bit; bend the usual rules.

 

“You know that I don’t drink,” Casbot reminded him.

 

“Nobody’s going to notice if I drink both of these myself,” Dean answered. “But it would look kinda weird if I didn’t order you anything, wouldn’t it?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

Casbot’s eyelids drifted almost closed, long lashes hovering as he looked at Dean’s mouth. It was so very much like  _ Cas  _ that Dean almost lost himself to the fantasy again. He snapped out of it sharply enough as the space between them closed, twisting his face away. Casbot leant in anyway, pressing his nose right into Dean’s neck. Warm, wet breath gusted against his skin, practically alive and completely intoxicating. The temptation was to tuck his chin down, and Dean did just that, finding his lips hovering against Casbot’s mouth.

 

“You taste so good,” the golem murmured, enticingly.

 

Dean knew he should push the creature away, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t. So he made his own excuses: it wouldn’t look like he really belonged in a gay club if he went about resisting the advances of his hot blue-eyed boyfriend, would it?

 

He let his fingers cast against the golem’s jaw and bent in to press their mouths together. His recollection of the way that Casbot had tasted when they kissed before was nothing to the taste of him now, vibrant against the flat of his tongue. Dean kissed _Castiel_ , and it didn’t matter any more that it wasn’t his angel in his arms.

 

Dean just needed something like love, something like affection. His golem loved him unconditionally, and oh, how he needed it.

 

 

 

 

So he kissed him, working his tongue roughly against the insistent probing of the golem’s, the earth taste almost forgotten as  _ Castiel _ kissed him back. He clutched Cas’ face with one hand, then both, and shivered as Cas’ wandering fingers climbed up the inside of his leather jacket, finding a spot to settle above his first few ribs. It was warm and intimate. He found himself melting into it.

 

Reality drifted. Time passed. The slow melt of bodies underneath the warmth of the lights drew him down into its languishing embrace, and Dean let himself forget why they were really there.

 

“Okay. Gotta breathe.”

 

Dean didn’t know how long he’d been kissing him, but the song had changed. People had moved around. Casbot hung close, his hand still tucked away inside Dean’s jacket even though they’d edged apart.

 

Ferret guy was watching them from beside a pillar, a dark beer bottle in his hand. He turned away when Dean looked at him and vanished out of sight.  _ Perve _ , Dean thought.  _ Jealous perve. _

 

Didn’t stop him from blushing. Other than winding Sam up now and again, PDA wasn’t really his scene. This undercover stuff was just so  _ challenging. _

 

Speaking of undercover, though, he was supposed to still be on the job, looking for werewolves rather than getting dreamily lost in his former angel’s eyes.

 

The problem was that any one person here could be a werewolf. Hell, they could all be. He might have stumbled on the only werewolf-only gay club on the entire East coast. Unlikely, maybe, but the possibility was there.

 

The barman had stupidly pointy canine teeth, slightly protruded so that his lips had to peel back from them every time he smiled. A gyrating lesbian couple on the dance floor were wearing so much kohl between them that they could have rolled around on a piece of canvas and called it art. The bouncer – the man was huge – had one of those heads that was pointy on top like an egg, and his nostrils were wide enough that Dean thought he could probably stick his whole hand up them.  People looked weird. They always did.

 

With all the possessive touching, occasional licking, and gratuitous sniffing that people were doing, Dean couldn’t have said which one was the most likely potential werewolf even if they were in a lineup. The problem with these critters was that typically speaking they blended in. It made hunting them much more difficult.

 

Meant you needed a professional.

 

And it meant that that professional ought to be on his game, not shivering like a teenaged boy when questing fingers pinched his nipple underneath his shirt.

 

Dean hissed, eyes snapping back to the golem’s. “What are you doing?”

 

Casbot looked at him entreatingly. “I’m blending in.”

 

“I’m trying to focus,” Dean said. There wasn’t too much bite in his reprimand.

 

“You’re trying too hard,” Casbot answered. “If the werewolf means to strike, it won’t do so until the end of the evening.”

 

“I sorta want to catch it before it strikes, Cas.”

 

Dean used the epithet accidentally, catching himself just a moment too late. He wasn’t the only one to notice.

 

“I’m sorry,” Casbot apologized, letting his hand drift away from Dean’s chest, sitting back from him.

 

They sat in near silence--but for the pounding bass and Dean’s loud beer swallowing.

 

“You should give me a name,” the golem said. “Something that’s not “Cas” or “Castiel”. I am neither of those things to you.”

 

“What? Like “Emmanuel”? Maybe “Jimmy.” “James.””

 

The sarcasm in Dean’s tone must have been clear, because Casbot looked away. “It was only a suggestion.”

 

To be fair, it wasn’t wholly unreasonable. Dean had created the golem in Castiel’s image, but he had never accepted him as being Castiel. It made it so much worse when he forgot and called the creature by his friend’s name; made it easier to forget that his angel was dead when he was kissing him. “Casbot” wasn’t exactly a flattering nickname either, and Dean had never spoken it out loud.

 

He sighed, letting his mind wander.

 

“How about “Daniel”?” he finally asked.

 

The golem turned his head to look across at the Jack Daniels poster on the opposite wall, then returned his gaze to Dean, unamused.

 

“Not “Daniel” then.”

 

“Perhaps “Betzalel”?” the golem suggested. “It means “in the shadow of God”.”

 

“How about something I can pronounce?” Dean grumbled. Clearly the golem had better ideas than he did.

 

“Simon.”

 

“You’re not a Simon.”

 

“Jethro.”

 

Dean shook his head. “Like the guy from NCIS? Nope.”

 

“Gideon.”

 

Dean considered that for a moment. He couldn’t place where he’d heard the name recently, so it probably wasn’t important. He chewed his lip, and then nodded. “Gideon’s fine. Like the Bible.”

 

“Like the judge, a great warrior and hero of the faith.”

 

Dean stared at him for a moment, looking away when Casbot – when Gideon’s – expression didn’t shift. He was serious. Maybe it came with the whole golem territory, knowing about scripture. Dean didn’t know. There was a lot about golem that he didn’t know, and it made it kind of shamelessly reckless to have made one the way he had.

 

“So, Gideon,” Dean tested the sound of the name on his tongue, eyes tracking across the room again. “You see anyone here who looks like a lunatic to you?”

 

Gideon frowned at him. “A lunatic? A madman?”

 

“No—“ Dean took a breath. He’d almost said “Cas” again. It was such a Cas thing to say. “No, a “lunatic” because wolves howl at the moon.”

 

“Oh. That’s clever.” Gideon squinted. “Should I be able to see the difference? You all look alike to me.”

 

Dean bit his lip. “I guess it’s a hunter thing. Instinct.”

 

“And what is your instinct telling you?”

 

“That either this place is crawling with lunatics or there’re none here at all.”

 

“One of those statements is certain to be correct,” Gideon agreed. He squeezed his fingers gently where they had fallen back on his thigh, the position so intimately familiar that it was almost suffocating. In a good way.

 

He bent to brush a kiss to the golem’s mouth.

 

“I’m gonna scope the place out. If that creeper comes back…” Dean shook his head.

 

“I can take care of myself,” Gideon agreed.


	5. Werewolves 1, Instinct 0

Under the warm lights Dean moved through the club, sparing the occasional glance back to where Gideon, looking so much like Castiel, folded his hands in his lap and watched the people around him.

 

Someone caught Dean’s hip, looping their arm around him, and bent right into his space, breath hot and heavy. It was a bear of a man, at least four inches taller than Dean was, his trimmed black beard bearing hints of grey. He wore a sickening rainbow colored tie-dye shirt over worn washed out jeans, and ground a persistent bulge into Dean’s hip before he could protest. The stench of him was thick and animalistic.

 

Immediately Dean’s instinct screamed “ _ wolf _ ”, but ever since he’d walked in through the doors of this place that very same instinct had been striking out. He wasn’t used to men being so handsy with him and he honestly wasn’t sure he liked it.

 

“Hey sugar,” the man said. “You fancy a quick one outside? Your boyfriend’s not watching.”

 

Dean felt a pang for the loss of Castiel. He pushed his hand against the man’s chest as though to get space between them, but the man dipped in closer, practically thrust his tongue into his ear.

 

“Come on, sugar. I won’t bite unless you want me to.”

 

Maybe his instinct was right this time. Dean took another look at the guy, letting just a little of his guard down. He glanced across at Gideon, who seemed to be studying his fingernails now with strict intent. Letting the hunter in him take over, he took a tight hold of the man’s shirt and stepped back, guiding the stranger with him.

 

“Why not? So long as he didn’t see, right?”

 

Dean didn’t have much of a weapon on him—but then he didn’t need much of a weapon. All he needed to do to kill a wolf was to pierce its heart with silver, and the Bunker wasn’t exactly poorly equipped. There was a silver flip knife in his boot  which would do the trick.

 

They made their way outside, up through a long blacklit corridor covered in decorative mirrors in old frames, and out into the refreshing night-time whip of tropical salt air. After the heat of the club, it was more than enough to wake up Dean’s senses. The man put a loose brick into the fire door so that it didn’t close, then grinned up at Dean. His teeth, flashing in the moonlight, were about all that Dean could see of him.

 

“So is this the part where you drag me into the bushes and eat me?”

 

The man laughed - it was a low, intoxicating sort of laugh – and advanced on Dean. When he was close enough, he crushed their bodies together, crowding Dean back. It wasn’t his goal to end up with his back against the wall, but the man got him there anyway, his breath a terrifying heat against Dean’s throat. He felt vulnerable. The last thing he wanted was to go getting himself bit by a werewolf. Vampire was bad enough, but this…

 

He pushed on the man’s chest again, wrestling him around, catching his breath as the man laughed again. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Probably thought Dean had really fallen into his web. The man curled his fingers tightly in Dean’s jacket,  so Dean lowered himself, crouched down low in front of him, and slid the pocket knife out of his boot.

 

But the man – the werewolf – didn’t seem to have a problem with him getting down almost to his knees. In fact he yanked down his fly with his other hand, freeing his cock so quickly that by the time Dean looked up it was just there, huge and hard an inch from his nose, surprising him so much he fell back on his ass in fright.

 

The man stared at him, and Dean stared at the man, holding his switchblade in one hand, and Dean had a sinking realization that he’d screwed up. His instinct was totally off.

 

“What the fuck, man? What the fuck is that for?”

 

“Would you believe me if I said I’m checking that you’re not a werewolf?”

 

“Dude. Dude, you are totally whack!” The man was putting distance between them long before he started stuffing himself back into his pants. “That’s it, man! I’m done! Only thing I ever pick up at this joint is crazy.”

 

Dean watched him go, tucked his blade back into his boot, and headed back to the fire door, toeing it back open and stepping into the heat beyond. The thumping bass hit him at once. He still felt a little crestfallen. Werewolves 1, Instinct 0.


	6. A Picture of You in My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW art in this chapter.

When he got back to the main room Castiel – Gideon – wasn’t where he’d left him.

 

The golem was just  _ gone _ . Dean squinted, desperate to remember whether or not he’d told the golem to stay where he was or not. Hadn’t he ordered him to stay put? Gideon wasn’t a hunter. And sure, he could look after himself in a fight, an indestructible monster that would make a werewolf howl for its mommy, but that didn’t stop Dean from suddenly being overwhelmed with worry.

 

He’d lost Cas.

 

God, he’d lost Castiel. It had all happened so fast. They’d been retreating from Lucifer, heading back for the rift, and Cas had appeared through it, determined to finish the job once and for all. Dean had understood. Lucifer kept coming back, and Castiel needed to end it. More than that, perhaps he felt like he needed to redeem himself. Castiel had failed so often, and Dean understood,  _ he did _ , but it had been reckless.

 

He’d known it from the very moment Cas appeared. Sam had wrapped an arm around him, and Dean had felt rising horror that the rift would close and he would never see Cas again.

 

But he did. He saw him again. Just long enough to see relief and victory in his expression before his angel died; before he fell, crumbled to the ground and his grace burned out around him, searing black wings into the wet earth.

 

He’d lost him, and now he’d gone and lost him again; taken his eyes off Gideon and  _ lost him, just like he’d lost Cas. _

 

Except no--there he was, heading into the men’s room.

 

Clay creatures didn’t need to pee.

 

Dean followed, his instincts kicking off again. Knowing his luck and considering they were in a gay club, it figured this would be another sex thing. Besides, Gideon was as hot as the man he’d been made to look like, and it stood to reason that anyone who saw him would want him to blow him.

 

Dean could imagine it, blue eyes staring up at him through strands of tousled raven hair, those beautiful round lips curled around the tip. He was gorgeous. So  _ of course _ someone had dragged him off to the bathroom for a quickie.

 

By the time he got there, Gideon had disappeared into one of the stalls. All were closed, and Dean’s nostrils burned with the scent of sex that permeated every inch of the room. Behind two of the stall doors he could hear heavy breathing, wet noises, and then—CRASH.

 

The weasley guy from before smashed the mirror on the opposite side of the room with his back. He shattered the stall door on the way: it exploded into splinters.

 

Gideon stepped out, crossing the room to lift the weasley man bodily off the ground, slamming him into the broken mirror again, legs dangling. The other stall doors opened, and men in various states of undress tumbled out and went running like it was a gay club comedy sketch, leaving Dean alone with the golem and his prey.

 

“Hello, Dean,” said Gideon, without looking at him.

 

“Hi to you too. Not that I particularly mind or anything, but what did ferret-face do to piss you off?”

 

Gideon narrowed his eyes fiercely, still not raising them away from his victim. “He’s the werewolf.”

 

“You don’t say. And how do you know that?”

 

“Because he attempted to interrogate me. He said he could smell me across the room. He wanted to know what I was.”

 

“I’m guessing he still has no idea. Huh, fella?” Dean prowled closer, coming up beside Gideon’s left shoulder. “He doesn’t really need to know. You’re the one who’s been hunting around these parts, right?”

 

The wolf snarled, showing off his viciously sharp teeth. Gideon lifted him off the glass and smashed him against it again. That seemed to rattle some of the fight out of him.

 

“Answer his question,” the golem commanded.

 

“Yes. Yeah, man. Yeah. I couldn’t help myself. Please—please don’t kill me.”

 

“Is that what they said to you? Did they beg you not to kill them before you ripped out their hearts? No. They didn’t even see you coming, did they?”

 

The werewolf, sensing that it was cornered, did what monsters typically did and lashed out. It snarled and kicked and scratched futilely against Gideon’s strength. It needn’t have bothered. Club security appeared at the door before Dean could even retrieve his knife, and the werewolf skittered free as Dean and Gideon beat a hasty retreat, breaking the bouncer’s shoulder in the process.

 

\---

 

Gideon drove him against the back of the motel room door with almost as much force as he’d used on the bouncer.  _ Almost _ as much, that was, because Dean could still breathe. He sucked in a mouthful of air before Gideon slammed their lips together, and gave up on the idea of breathing again any time soon.

 

The golem was, just as Castiel would have been, a force to be reckoned with. He had strong hands and a supernatural vitality, just as Castiel would have had. Dean  _ needed _ it, like any good vice. It was the kind of sexuality he’d always desperately hoped to crumble beneath, needing someone assertive who wasn’t afraid of breaking him. Someone that still had sufficient power that Dean couldn’t simply overwhelm them by nature of his usual existence: he was a hunter; strong; a man. Nothing mortal frightened him, not even enormous grizzled bear-men with arms like tree trunks. To submit to another person’s power in bed was a whole other story.

 

Dean was submitting now. He liked it. He liked the hands gripping his shirt and the muscular back that he held onto in turn. He liked the rough stubble that dragged against his skin, the demanding lips that fought his own apart and plundered his mouth.

 

He liked that the creature in his arms, not more than an hour ago, had gripped Ferret-face’s head in one long fingered hand and crushed his skull into dust once they had caught up to him to make the kill. It made him feel weak at the knees to know that a man of such indomitable will was kissing him now, driving a knee between Dean’s thighs and using his hips to pin Dean’s back against the wall.

 

Using the advantage of his position, Gideon ground against him until Dean was gasping again, resisting the airless kiss until Gideon’s mouth fell to his throat instead. It was bliss and it was torture, and Dean moaned as teeth found his pulse, his erection an ever more unbearable pressure, heat building underneath far too many layers of wool and stiff cotton. If he didn’t die from the steel hard grinding of cock against cock, it would be from heat and suffocation.

 

But Gideon had that in hand as well, plucking open the buttons of his shirt roughly enough that Dean was sure one or two of them had become casualties of war. The Henley foiled him, and Dean batted at Gideon’s shoulders to stop him before he tore it in half.

 

“I’ve only got so many clothes. C’mon.”

 

The shirt came up, and Dean pulled every layer he had over his own head and wrenched at the sleeves as they got stuck on the end of his arms. Gideon didn’t wait for him. Eager hands went straight for his ribs, making him gasp and twitch, and then sharp fingernails scratched down his back as Gideon dropped down to his knees in front of him.

 

Dean dropped his head back against the wall, struggling fitfully with flinging his shirt off the end of his left hand before plunging his fingers into the golem’s plush dark hair. It happened so quickly. One moment he was spreading his thighs a little further, and then his fly was down, his jeans dragged nearly down to his ankles in a single motion, and a hot mouth sank all the way down on his oversensitive cock without warning.

 

He looked down…

 

 

…and – equally without warning - he came.

 

Warm, strong arms swung around him, but Dean was paying no attention to them. The only thing he was thinking about were those bright blue eyes staring up at him as Castiel’s plump, pink lips curled nearly around the base of his cock.  It flashed against the back of his eyelids as Gideon hauled him bodily across the room, kissing tenderly at his throat as he turfed them both down on the bed.

 

_ What had he done? What the hell had he done? _

 

Disgusted, Dean wailed, shoving at the body above him, and trying to crawl away from it at the same time, a task made more difficult by the knot of denim around his ankles. What had he done? This wasn’t Castiel. What did he think he was doing? Cas was dead.  _ Dead _ . And Dean was sleeping with some clayfaced blow up doll version, a fake Cas; a fake Cas with a fake name, and the same haunting blue eyes. Dean could still see them now. He imagined Castiel judging him for it, with that same blue eyed stare, glowering at him in disgust.

 

Castiel’s eyes.  _ Castiel’s _ . He’d brought this on himself, revived the ghost of his dead friend and then fucked its willing mouth. The golem was a monster, not an angel; a clay beast he’d dreamed up and brought to life, and now it was going to torture him for what he’d done, a cruel and insipid emotional torture.

 

He’d brought this on himself. He deserved this. Like Doctor Frankenstein, his creation wasn’t the monster of the story:  _ he _ was.

 

Those eyes had been closed when he fell to the ground. Closed, shutting that light out, because Cas had burned out inside his vessel. It was absolute that way. Dean didn’t get to look into his glassy eyes and wonder if any hint of him remained. No; Castiel had been silent, still, and  _ gone _ .

 

He was  _ still _ gone. Dean was defiling his memory, betraying him, while Castiel’s ashes… No. They weren’t even  _ his _ ashes. If angels were light, then Castiel’s light had gone out.

 

Dean was revolted by himself. His own sexuality, raw and exposed in the emotional freefall of his afterglow, was an utterly repugnant thing. It made him want to carve it out at once with the sharpest blade he could find, completely horrified from toe to tip, as though the continuing twitching of his cock, even now, was to his continuing shame.

 

Gideon, confused, had pulled away from him the moment Dean started to beat at his arms and chest, and Dean scrambled even further away from him, climbed up the bed like a cat climbing a curtain and threw himself behind every pillow barrier there was, clutching them in claw hands. His jeans had come off, thank God, taking one of his socks with them.

 

He didn’t dare look up, so ashamed of himself that it took firm words to draw red-eyed attention from his bawling.

 

Gideon implored him. “Dean, please.”

 

Dean raked his nails through his own hair, feeling them digging into his scalp. He couldn’t look at Gideon, couldn’t look into those blue eyes again—not knowing what he’d done. His shame curdled in his belly and wrung his heart out like a wet towel, until, dripping with humiliation, he dragged himself off the bed instead.

 

Once he’d locked himself in the bathroom, Dean curled up with his back to the door. It took hours to cry himself to sleep.


	7. Goodbye, Stranger

The next morning, Dean opened his eyes with a start, naked but for a sock and freezing cold, with his back still against the bathroom door and - briefly - no idea how he’d gotten there. Ignorance fled him swiftly enough. He remembered what he’d done, and even the aches and pains of sleeping half upright hadn’t helped to make him feel punished enough for what he’d done.

 

Uncoiling, stretching his hurting limbs, Dean dragged himself to his feet, then limped over to the sink to lean against it. For the first time in what felt like years he stared into the mirror. A stranger looked back. His skin looked grey, his cheeks gaunt, eyes hollow. He’d lost weight, and some of the hair around his temples had begun to silver. He felt sad. The expression was sad. His own eyes, he thought, were sad; but it wasn’t an emotional sadness. It was a spiritual one. It was deeply carved into him now, with all the things he’d seen compounded by suffocating grief.

 

Needless to say, he didn’t like the way he looked. The man in the mirror was a man still in mourning, and Dean just hadn’t realized it; thought he was done with it, moving on. What? Because he’d put on his damn shoes for the first time in months and gone outside to fight monsters?

 

Idiot. He was a fucking idiot. An idiot in need of a shave and a shower--or a bottle of whiskey and a sleeping pill. He looked like a wreck: might as well feel like one too, because he wasn’t going to be done with mourning any time soon.

Cas was dead.

 

He put himself in the shower and turned on the hot water, letting it scald his skin and sting his toes. He throbbed all over. His lungs hurt. With no more tears left to cry, Dean beat his hands against the wall instead, only stopping when his knuckles were raw meat and blood ran down the drain with the water, staining his lone white sock on the way.

 

Still hurting terribly, Dean let his shoulder sink against the tile, rubbing at his face, scratching at his hairline. There was nothing for it. Cas was dead, and he had to go back out there. The world wasn't going to disappear just because  _ he _ wanted to.

 

Finishing up his shower was more difficult with ravaged knuckles. Dean already regretted his outburst, the stinging pain that throbbed warning signals up his arms was more than enough to wake his foggy brain to the possibility that maybe beating the shit out of inanimate objects was a bad choice--as usual.

 

The pain was far worse by the time he pulled himself, dripping, out of the shower, ignoring his reflection in favor of wrapping his fists in the dry motel flannels and wincing fiercely as the coarse fabric dug into his open wounds.

 

There were no clothes in here, just the flannels and one woefully inadequate towel, which Dean pinched against his left hip as he inched his way out of the bathroom door.

 

As though he hadn’t moved all night, Gideon sat on the edge of the bed watching the door. If Dean hadn’t expected him to be there, the golem might have given him a fright, but Dean knew the creature’s loyalty better than that: it was based on Castiel’s after all. He gave Gideon a glance made out of pure granite - not that the golem deserved it - then stalked to his bed to dress in last night’s clothes, no matter how strongly they seemed to him to smell of hormones and sex. God, he was an  _ animal _ , and definitely not in the good way.

 

His wet sock, and its mate, were abandoned on the floor. Sam would be furious with him for it, but Dean wasn’t limping out of here with his naked feet in his sweaty loafers carrying nought but two socks. He had  _ some _ pride, and if anything was going to complete the hobo look, that would be it. Without socks at all he just looked like a desperate hipster.

 

When he left, Gideon followed behind him, remaining stoically silent company all the way back to the bunker, almost as if he knew what must be coming.

 

\-----

Sam wasn’t back yet. He’d gone off on some mission to explore Jack’s powers; nothing Dean particularly cared about or had even questioned. Dean led Gideon to his room, where the four safe familiar walls made him feel stronger, more confident. Even in his worst moments, Dean had still made the bed just the way that his father had taught him to, and it was as comforting as any place could really be.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared sadly up at the golem.

 

Gideon spoke first. “You’re going to...to deactivate me, aren’t you?”

 

Dean faltered. He didn’t know if the emotion in Gideon’s voice was real or not, but it hurt to hear it, made his heart waver like he was standing too close to an electromagnet of pure misery. He had to do this. He had to. Gideon wasn’t Castiel, and he never would be. Nor would Dean ever be able to move past his grief until he’d really let him go. As long as he carried round this morbid specter of his friend, that would never happen, and was that truly what Cas would have wanted for him?

 

“I thought we had something--” Gideon started, sounding hopeful and broken at once.

 

“It wasn’t us,” Dean said, and his voice broke a little as he said it. “It was me and him, me and Cas. You and I? God, we’re just… I made you how I thought I needed you to be, but I fucked up. I can’t do this.”

 

“Give me another chance. I can do better. I can be whatever you need, Dean, just please…  _ Please _ don’t unmake me. You gave me this body, this life, and I’ve only just begun to discover what it means. I want to know more. I know there’s more. More that I can do for you...”

 

Dean couldn’t even look at him. Instead he glowered at a spot on the floor with enough ferocity that he was certain the carpet might set fire at any moment. This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. He didn’t want to kill Gideon, didn’t want to take life from the creature that he had given it to, had made so perfectly that he could see Castiel in every tiny wrinkle of its nose.

 

Now, when the chips were really down, the last thing he wanted was to see Cas beg for his life--begging  _ him _ for one more minute, one more day.

 

“ _ Please _ , Dean. Please don’t do this to me.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

The golem obeyed, as Dean had known it would. Blissfully, it couldn’t say another word, but that didn’t make it any easier when finally Dean did his best to meet his eyes. There was such fear and misery in them that he almost lost his nerve right then and there.

 

Shakily he pulled himself up off the bed, rubbing his fist against his nose and sniffing. That was all it took for the tears to start again, falling stinging and wet down his already ravaged cheeks.

 

“I have to do this,” he said. He repeated it, like a mantra, and took both of Gideon’s cheeks in his hands, holding him firmly. He didn’t shy away from Gideon’s blue eyes this time, not that his focus helped to see them straight: the waterfall of tears obscured his vision quickly enough.

 

His voice was thick with misery as he told things to Gideon that he had never had a chance to say to the real Cas. He started with the most important words, the ones that had eaten him from the inside out every moment that he had struggled with his gutwrenching loss:

 

“I love you.”

 

Something in the fear he was looking at became subdued. Gideon’s eyebrows tipped up in the center and he wept one single clay colored tear. It left a muddy streak down his cheek, and warmed Dean’s left thumb. Dean had never admitted to loving Castiel before, though Gideon had accused him of it. This, then, was the first time that Dean had spoken the words himself.

 

“ _ I love you _ ,” he repeated, because it was killing him not to say it, and now it was there: out in the open like a desperate prayer, Dean desperately needed to say it again. “I love you  _ so much _ , Cas. I never fucking told you because I’m an idiot, and I know there’s no point telling you now. I know it’s too late to make it matter.”

 

Just as they had when he spoke to his mother, once they were out, the words flowed eagerly, like a dam finally breaking. Just as violent, just as destructive as water, they crashed free.

 

“All I know is that I need your forgiveness. I need you to forgive me for never saying anything--for not telling you when you lost your mind to that angel programming. For not telling you when you turned human and I couldn’t save you. For not telling you when you refused to come home from Purgatory.

 

“I should have told you when you were lying on that barn floor  _ dying _ , and I should have told you in the car that night, when you and mom came to save us. I should have told you when you brought me that freaking mixtape back, you idiot, because you didn’t get what it meant in the first place. Or when--when you offered to come with me when I went to face Amara.”

 

The words took longer to speak than he could stand through the thickness of his tongue, drowning in his own snot and tears. He bent forward, and pushed his temple against Gideon’s. The words were misplaced. He wasn’t telling them to the person who needed to hear them. It was too late for all that now, and that was what made it hurt the most.

 

“I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I never told you. I wish I could take it back. I wish with my whole heart I could take it back and just once - any of those times - have told you what you really meant to me. That’s why I need you to forgive me.  _ Forgive me, _ Cas. You’re so much more than just a brother to me.”

 

When he pulled back, Gideon’s eyes were closed. Tears were running down his cheeks too. But Dean didn’t allow the golem to speak, didn’t reverse the order that he had imposed on him. Instead, he gave the instruction for the golem to surrender its scroll, and when at last it was held firmly in his hand and the creature was still, Dean sat on the edge of the bed again, staring up at it miserably.

 

 

It felt like he thought it would. This time he was killing his friend himself, rather than watching Castiel’s own pride and determination take him. But Gideon had never deserved what Dean had done to him either. He’d begged for his life because he had one, because he wasn’t just a creature or a thing: Dean had made him into a person--a person who was  _ loved _ . He couldn’t imagine anyone ever wanting to give that up.

 

“I’m sorry for this, too,” he said to dead air, knowing Gideon couldn’t hear him. “You didn’t ask for this, but I gave it to you anyway. Don’t think either of us knew what it would mean, but I’m the one with the flesh and blood brain. I shoulda known better. I shoulda known not to play God.”

 

He couldn’t look at it any more. He couldn’t even imagine looking at  _ himself _ long enough to clean his face up again. So Dean scrubbed the tears off his face with his sleeve and made his way to the library instead to raid his stash of whiskey. He’d go drink in the garage where nobody would disturb him. God knew he couldn’t stand to drink in his room with Gideon standing there, effectively dead.

 

But it didn’t matter if someone interrupted him. He planned to get trashed either way. Really,  _ really _ trashed.


	8. Dear Diary: Dean is an Idiot

Sam didn’t look amused when he and Jack dragged him out through the Chrysler’s suicide doors. If anything, he looked like he was maybe at the limits of how far his “decent human being” act could stretch, if not already gone way past it. His brother’s scrunched up nose politely informed Dean that he’d poured whiskey over himself and the car while he cried himself into drunken snoozing, and if Sam gave two shits about classic cars Dean might have deflected the disgust as concern for them. The truth was, though, that the only thing Sam could possibly be revolted by was Dean himself, and that revulsion was completely justified.

 

Dean couldn’t stand himself either.

 

“ _ Dean _ .”

 

Sam shook him. So Dean leaned over to the left and vomited. He was relinquished pretty quickly after that.

 

“This isn’t you, man. What the hell are you doing? It’s like you’re right back at square one.”

 

“Not your problem, Sam.”

 

“Not my problem? While you’ve been flopping around like an idiot,  _ I’ve _ been the one looking for a way to fix this. I’ve been trying to find mom, and  _ I’ve _ been trying to find a way to bring Cas back.  _ Me _ . Meanwhile, in my spare time, I’ve been babysitting the most powerful creature on the planet  _ and _ making sure you don’t roll over and die in a pool of your own vomit. So tell me, Dean. Exactly which part of this  _ isn’t _ my problem?”

 

Dean stared up at his baby brother feeling even more like a cad than usual. He was a loser, and Sam… Sam must have it all together, because the idea of doing any one of the things his brother was describing sounded like way too much hard work.

 

Sam straightened, rolling his shoulders and shooting a look across at Jack. They must have been working on a secret language together all this time, because Satan’s Son just nodded and disappeared off up the stairs.

 

Sam stood over him and put his hands on his hips.

 

“Get up, Dean. Get up, go and get cleaned up. We have a job. And maybe – just maybe – if you don’t fuck it up, we can get things back to being the way they ought to be.”

 

 

 

Day One AC (After Cas)

 

_ We lost everything today. It’s hit Dean a lot harder than even I thought it would. At first I thought maybe it was losing mom, but Dean seems to be at peace with not having her in his life, like that’s the norm. If it was just her then he’d be all gung ho about tearing down the walls between universes and going to save her. _

 

_ No. I think this is all about Cas. I think it’s always been about Cas, and I just didn’t have the sense to see it. All that machismo crap he always spewed when Cas so much as stood near him—I can’t believe I didn’t see through it sooner. Dean was in love with him, and I don’t think he ever said a word. _

 

_ Who did he think was going to judge him for it? Me? Other hunters? He can’t possibly have thought Cas would reject him. I knew years ago that he was totally besotted with Dean, and when he said that he loved us, I knew he was talking about Dean most of all. If it took watching him die for Dean to realize that, then I can see why he might be so choked up about it. _

 

_ I’m going to give him some time and see if he pulls through. If he goes back to looking for a job to do I’ll know we’re back in business. Besides, I still need to track down Lucifer’s son, and I don’t think Dean’s going to be any help making the kid feel safe. Angels are after him already. He needs to know he’s safe with us. _

 

 

 

Day Four AC

 

_ Got home with Jack today after dodging angels all the way back to the bunker. Thank fuck for our warding, otherwise I don’t think I could have kept it up much longer. Kid’s weak from fighting back too, which is maybe the only reason why he put up with me bringing him here in the first place, but I like to think we’ve made friends somewhere on the road. _

 

_ Dean’s acting stranger than usual. I mean obviously the first thing he did after Cas died was get totally trashed – and he left the bottles in the library to prove it - but now I think he’s picking up arts and crafts. It’s the weirdest coping strategy yet. Maybe it’s because we caught that rerun of  _ Ghost  _ a couple weeks ago. Either way, he’s basically filled the dungeon with clay, and padlocked it so nobody can go in there. _

 

_ It’s just weird. I don’t know what to make of it. But whatever works for him, right? One problem at a time. _

 

 

 

Day Seven AC

 

_ Hadn’t seen Dean for two whole days. I think he’s stopped sleeping in his room. Caught him sneaking out of the dungeon to use the bathroom today, and he’s looking like steamrolled shit. He’s losing weight. You can see it round his eyes, and he looks more miserable than I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe try to get Cas back. But what about mom? It’s a week now she’s been in the other universe with Lucifer. _

 

_ I’m going to try taking some meals down there, leave them outside and hope the smell of fried food gets his attention. I need to snap him out of it. I need his help on this. Between mom, Cas, taking care of Dean and teaching Junior about the world I’m drowning here. It’s too much for one guy. I need my brother back. _

 

 

 

Day Thirteen AC

 

_ I got into the basement today.  _

 

_ It took some fucking work, I tell you. First of all I had to get him out of there, which meant telling him I didn’t care what he was doing so long as he slept in his own bed. While he was doing that I broke in. There’s this clay blob in there almost six foot high, with Castiel’s face on it. He’s set up air humidifiers, and the place is dripping wet. There’s clay everywhere, tools everywhere, empty beer bottles and a bunch of ratty blankets that I’m pretty sure are a makeshift bed.  _

 

_ I tidied the place up, got rid of all the spoiled food and broken bottles, and laundered the blankets. Dean’s not going to be happy, but at least I didn’t destroy his project like I was tempted to. _

 

_ I’ll let him carry on with it for as long as it seems like it's helping. But as soon as that changes I’ll put an end to it.  _

 

_ I hate to say it, but maybe this is when Dean breaks. It’s happened to a lot of good hunters, people who have been through a hell of a lot less than the two of us have. This could just be too much for him. _

  
  


 

 

Day Twenty One AC

 

_ Jack is incredible. Really, he’s got the kind of power you can barely imagine. I don’t think we’ve even scratched the surface of it. He’s sort of sensitive about his parents, which I think is reasonable given the circumstances. The whole world is geared up to villainize Lucifer, and Jack’s never even met him. For a while he thought that maybe he was cursed, and I told him that was funny, because I once thought the same thing. _

 

_ We’re getting on fine, really. Dean not so much. He’s snippy when he’s around. Fortunately he’s also barely around. Jack doesn’t seem to like him very much, and it’s obvious the feeling’s mutual. I think it’s sad. Jack has a lot in common with Cas, and I think he’d be happy to get along with Dean if Dean would just let him in. _

 

_ It’s a safe pattern for now, I guess. I’m focusing on teaching Jack about the world and Dean is...doing his college art phase thing. He’ll get over it. _

 

 

 

 

Day Twenty Four AC

 

_ Making progress with the research. Jack says that if we can just work out how Balthazar sent us to that alternate universe the first time, he might be able to edit the spell to send us to others. He’s still learning spellwork though, so who knows if it’s even possible. It’s not exactly what I forsaw as being the next chapter in the adventures of Moose and Squirrel. Alternate universes? Like fucking up one plane of existence wasn’t enough for us, we have to go crash some others and ruin those too? _

 

_ We should try it, I guess. What else can we do? We can’t exactly leave mom there with Lucifer. Maybe it’s just personal experience talking, but that’s the last fate I’d wish on anyone. _

 

 

 

Day Thirty Two AC

 

_ I don’t even know what to write. I guess I should have seen this coming, but I mean. For fuck’s sake. Dean brought it to life. He made his clay Cas into a freaking golem and it’s walking around talking to him (and I’m pretty sure groping him under the table). _

 

_ He’s talking about taking it on a hunt, too! I’m sitting here with half the spell to go save mom and no idea how to tell him about it. I’m not taking a golem to alternate universes with us. The whole thing is a million different kinds of fucked up. _

 

_ The biggest problem is it looks just like him. Spot on, really. I walked in and I swear to God I thought Castiel was standing right there. Maybe it doesn’t move quite like him, and since we burned Cas’ clothes it’s not wearing a tan trenchcoat, but apart from that… I don’t understand how Dean can even look at it. I look at it and all I see is Cas’ death over and over again. How can that be good for anyone, least of all Dean? _

 

_ Jack, of course, doesn’t get what the problem is. Jesus. I thought Dean’s art project was harmless all this time. What a class dunce I am. Nothing Dean ever does is harmless. _

 

 

 

Day Forty Five AC

 

_ So Dean found a mission to take his new pet on. I don’t want to know what’s going through his head right now. He’s fucked up. That said, maybe his giant mistake is going to lead to something good after all. I’ve maybe found a spell we can use to get the real Cas back. With Jack’s powers being what they are, we might just be able to get it to work. _

 

_ We need to get a message to Cas first. If he’s in the Empty like Billie said (because he is a Winchester, after all), then we stand a really good chance. I just don't want to get Dean's hopes up until I’m sure. _

 

_ In the meantime, Jodie has a lead on a girl who might be able to help us out with our universe jumping plans, so I’m going to head north with Jack to check it out. No point missing the boat on saving mom, not when we’re so close. Maybe it's best we go our separate ways one more time. When Dean comes back, I’ll tell him about the plan. We can do this. _

  
  


\----

 

The spell was way too simple to be true. The first part of it, anyway. Speaking to someone in the Empty, it turned out, was just like talking to any other deceased person, only with an extra area code. All Sam had to do was mount the ouija board he was using on top of a box containing snake vertebrae, an eagle feather and cowslip, and tada, they were communicating.

 

It was so shamefully simple that it made Dean sick that it could have been so easy.

 

Of course Castiel’s messages made no sense until Sam realized he had to translate them back from Enochian into English.

 

Sam told him they were going to do aspell, and that there would be a door. He told Cas that he had to be the only thing that went through it. When Cas was puzzled by the request, Sam explained that they had a vessel waiting.

 

And then Cas asked about Dean.

 

“He wants to know how you are, Dean.”

 

Throughout the conversation, and despite the excitement buzzing through him, Dean hadn’t dared to move. It all seemed so hard to believe. Was it possible that they could really talk to Cas? Had it been this simple all along? And if they could talk to him, was it just like Sam said, that they could bring him back from the Empty with Jack’s power? Dean didn’t know how to hope that it was true any more, and a part of him was just so ashamed that it had taken this long, that he’d  _ burned _ Castiel’s body because he thought it couldn’t be done.

 

He’d given up, and it made him feel horrible. He’d left Cas to rot in the Empty, and Sam had gone looking for the solution without him.  _ Sam _ had tried to save him, while Dean had done what? Mourned, played dirty with plasticine men, and then drunk himself stupid to try and make his mistakes feel better?

 

But Cas was asking about him, and Dean felt bitter misery staining under his tongue. It hurt to know just how much Cas loved him. Even now, when he was the one floating around in nothingness, Castiel was more worried about him than he was about himself.

 

“Tell him I miss him,” he said, finally. “Tell him I just want him to come home.”


	9. What is and is Not a Person

“Where do we start?”

 

Dean was anxious about the whole thing. He hadn’t been much help setting up the spell, either, because it had turned out to require placing the intended vessel inside a magic circle, and Dean couldn’t so much as look at Gideon, nevermind touch him. Instead, Sam and Jack had carried the inert golem through the bunker together, setting him down in the middle of the war room.

 

It had taken three more hours to find the remaining ingredients and prepare them, as well as paint the required sigil on the floor in goat’s blood. Dean could have helped with it, of course, but he decided to stay in his room and listen to Cas’ mixtape instead, furious with himself for not having helped Sam make progress on this sooner.

 

It was his fault. Cas wasn’t home already because  _ Dean hadn’t tried to bring him back _ . No. Sam had done that.  _ Sam _ had bent over backward to find the magic. Sam was out there setting the spell up. Sam had put his faith in Jack and his powers when Dean couldn’t.

 

Now he really  _ did _ feel like a complete asshole.

 

A beer would have been a bad idea. So Dean drank six. By the time Sam called him to get started he was surly and bitter.

 

“Are you...are you drunk?” Sam asked, stunned.

 

“No more than I was when you woke me up,” Dean answered. “Are we going to do this or what?”

 

“Dean, we’re about to mess with the fabric of reality. We’re opening a door to the  _ Empty _ . Even I don’t know what that means, or what might come out while we’re freeing Cas. I need you--I  _ needed you _ on my side with this.”

 

“So does that mean you’re planning to leave Cas in there longer? It was two beers, Sam. I’ve gone to work on more.”

 

Two beers. Six. It was only a little white lie.

 

“I can resolve this issue,” Jack announced.

 

Dean didn’t have time to stop him. Jack placed his hand on his shoulder without waiting for permission, and Dean yelped in dismay as the nephillim’s power rushed through him. It felt like his liver had been scrubbed with a wire brush. All the happy dullness of alcohol poisoning was siphoned away, only to be replaced with abject clarity:

 

Castiel was really coming back.

 

“See?”

 

“That’s a neat trick,” Sam cooed, delighted with his pupil. “Though next time maybe let him sit down first.”

 

“How about next time ask my damn permission?” Dean asked. “What the hell, Sam? You don’t encourage the kid to use his powers on people like that. It ain’t polite.”

 

Jack, having briefly smiled at Sam’s compliment, dropped his eyes away sullenly. Dean hated that it made him feel guilty, but Jack’s emotional well being was Sam’s problem, not his. Dean hadn’t asked to parent the kid, though he supposed he was a part of it now whether he liked it or not. He still seemed determined to get Dean to approve of him even a little bit.

 

“Let’s just do this thing, okay? Let’s get Cas back already.”

 

Sam nodded, and they all took up their positions. The spell had been written for two people to channel the magic and guide the person home, but as Sam pointed out, it wouldn’t hurt to have more than two. It wasn’t like all these ancient witches had an entire coven to work with, right?

 

Dean could give two shits about the details. All he cared about was that they got this done. But as he stood on his point of the star, looking straight into the dull, lifeless eyes of Gideon, it was hard to feel like he deserved the success of this magic. Castiel did, of course, but Dean? He’d screwed up. There was no joy in getting what he’d set out to gain back, and worse still, he felt like he was losing something at the same time. Hadn’t Gideon been sweet to him? Hadn’t he been there when Dean was suffering most, unquestioning in his faith and dedication, loving him devotedly even though Dean loved another, and told him so right to his face?

 

He felt like a cad, and Gideon, standing there with his mouth open where Dean had removed the scroll, looked as sad as Dean felt, still frozen in the last position he’d been in, clay tears streaked down his cheeks.

 

Dean stepped off his mark.

 

“Dean, what are you doing?”

 

“It’s his body. It’s his choice.”

 

“Dean, it’s a golem. It’s not a person.”

 

Dean shot a glare at Sam, feeling fundamentally furious with him. Not a person? Was that what they were going with?

 

“His name’s Gideon. Sure, he may be made out of clay, but he’s a person, not a thing. He gets to choose whether or not he’s gonna be possessed by an angel.”

 

Sam grimaced, looking over at Jack for support and finding none. “You mean like me?” he finally shot back, “That one time you tricked me into letting an angel possess me?”

 

Dean didn’t look at his brother, but he still tensed the muscles in his jaw as he clenched it. He placed the scroll back inside Gideon’s mouth without a word.

 

For a moment nothing happened, apart from Gideon’s mouth closing, but then blue eyes blinked, and the dullness in them cleared back into vibrant life.

 

“Dean? How did we get here? What…?”

 

Dean placed his thumb over Gideon’s mouth as he framed his jaw with his hand. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, Gideon. I’m sorry. I…” He sucked in a deep breath. “I was mourning. I’m still mourning. Somehow I fell in love with you--”

 

Sam shifted in the corner of his field of vision, clearly startled by the straightforward admission, but Dean didn’t care. He was focused on Gideon, looking into his eyes with determination. He’d given Gideon life, and he’d taken it. Now, though, he was offering him a choice.

 

Gideon stopped him, curling his fingers around his hand to pull it aside.

 

“You fell in love with me because I looked like Castiel.”

 

Dean shook his head. “No. I mean, maybe a little bit at first. But… You’re incredible, Gideon, and sweet. You were good to me, and I didn’t deserve it. And I was a total asshole to you. So I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

 

Gideon bit his lip, tipping his head forward, and Dean pursed his lips, wishing that he’d actually look at him.

 

“You can stay,” he said, softly. “I’d let you stay--”

 

“Dean,” Sam started, furiously.

 

Raising his hand and talking over his brother, Dean persisted. “I’d let you stay whether Sammy liked it or not. I don’t care. But...but it’s…”

 

“You can tell me.”

 

“It’s Cas, Gideon. He’s out there. He can come home.”

 

“Really? Can I meet him?”

 

“In a matter of speaking,” Dean murmured. “Cas doesn’t have a body anymore. If he comes back, he’s going to need a vessel, and you’re… You’re made of clay, Gideon.”

 

“Like Adam,” Gideon agreed.

 

“Yeah. And because of that, you can accept his grace into your body. It’s like...like the breath of God. He wouldn’t even have to ask for permission.”

 

“Yes,” Gideon announced, as though he already knew the question.

 

“What?”

 

“You want to know whether I’ll allow Castiel to take this vessel. The answer is “yes”. You love Castiel, and I would only...I would only be a reminder of your loss, of missed opportunity. That is not how I want to live.”

 

“But you could leave. Have your own life…”

 

Gideon shook his head. “I was made to love you, Dean. I love you. That’s why I can’t deny you this. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to, and I don’t, because all I want is for you to be happy.”

 

Dean could barely see Gideon now through the tears in his own eyes, but the golem placed his hand against his jaw and looked at him affectionately but sternly, until Dean blinked the tears away long enough to look back at him.

 

“Let me do this,” Gideon told him. “Let me do this for you, Dean.”

 

Not trusting his voice, Dean nodded, and when Gideon reluctantly dropped his hand away, he almost stepped back. Almost. Sam was still looking at him like he’d grown another head, but Dean didn’t care. No. This was the last chance he had to make this right, to redeem himself somehow for what he’d put this creature through.

 

He stepped forward one last time and crushed his mouth against Gideon’s, kissed him impulsively and desperately, trying to inform him through one last desperate kiss just how much he was loved, and how grateful Dean was--how  _ guilty _ .

 

Gideon kissed him back like he understood, sweet and gentle, stroking Dean’s face with the fingers of one hand right up until the kiss broke.

 

Dean didn’t stop blinking back his tears until the spell was complete. He saw the exact moment that the eyes sparked bright with angelic grace, just before he shielded his face from the true glory of Castiel’s return.

 

And when the moment was over, and the three of them stood around Castiel, with all the candles blown out, Dean felt a fresh wave of despair wash over him. He could only imagine how things would be now, how Castiel wouldn’t be able to stand to look at him, how ashamed Sam would be to have Dean as a brother. Worse still, he’d truly put to death the only creature that, seemingly, had truly loved him unconditionally, a face he’d have to look into every time they worked with Cas.

 

Stepping back, he shot one last warning glance over at Jack, wiping the tears from his face furiously.

 

“You can just keep your anti-whiskey powers to yourself, you got it?”

 

“Got it,” Jack answered, lips pursing into an expression of quizzical confusion as he looked over to Sam for guidance.

 

Before Castiel even had a chance to tell them how relieved he was to be back, Dean had fled. The angel’s eyes seemed to bore into him long after he’d shut his bedroom door on them.


	10. The One With All the Smut

Maybe Sam held Cas up, but the angel didn’t actually come looking him for another hour, and by that point, Dean had managed to overcome his initial hysteria, the certainty that he was going to drown under the weight of what he was feeling.

  
  


It didn’t make him any more likely to say a word when a knock came on his door. If he didn’t say anything it stood to reason that his visitor would just go away. Ha. As if Sam or Cas would ever leave him to sulk on his own. Sam was much too determined to interfere, and Cas was the most socially inept person he knew.

  
  


Which was why the door opened regardless.

  
  


Castiel poked his head inside. He looked guilty, which was ridiculous, because Cas had been  _ dead _ . He had nothing to feel guilty about. Dean, on the other hand, who had been such a disgrace, who had failed to even do the work to bring him back, and who couldn’t even stand there and hug his friend when they were reunited, even though he claimed Cas meant so much to him? Well. Dean had plenty to feel shitty about, and he was more than happy to keep stewing on it.

  
  


“Dean.”

  
  


“Please, Cas. I just… I just  _ can’t _ .”

  
  


Castiel straightened up just on the edge of his field of vision, and Dean looked away from him as he turned back to the door, letting out a breath of relief as it closed. He just needed to be alone. He needed an  _ eternity  _ alone.

  
  


When a hand settled on his cheek, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. Cas hadn’t left, he was right there, lowering his weight down onto the bed beside Dean.

  
  


“You know that when an angel takes a vessel, they can access the memories of that vessel as if they were their own?”

  
  


It took Dean a second to work out what he meant, and Cas waited until he did, waited until Dean’s eyes flicked back up, flush with understanding.

  
  


“You...you mean you remember?”

  
  


“Gideon is right here, Dean, inside me. I can… I can feel his love for you, and it’s… It puts everything in perspective, things I wasn’t able to fully comprehend before. Do you understand what I mean?”

  
  


Dean shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to talk anyway, his stomach flip-flopping.

  
  


“I love you. I mean… I think I love you.”

  
  


Now Dean felt guilty for not saying anything. He sat up straighter, pulling away from Castiel as he did. “What?”

  
  


“You have to understand that I’m not… I’m not sure I felt anything until I met you, Dean. It took me so long to even name the things I felt, nevermind control them. How do you define the color blue, Dean? Without ever having seen it? How do you define love without ever having felt it?”

  
  


Dean stared at Cas, not sure quite what to say. He barely understood what the angel was telling him, particularly since those three words were still ringing in the empty space that was between us his ears.

  
  


“You love me?” he asked, at last. It felt like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of toffees.

  
  


“I think so.”

  
  


“Jesus, Cas.  _ You think so _ ?”

  
  


“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Cas answered irritably. “I couldn’t possibly have known that was what I was feeling. It isn’t as though I was ever given any instruction on the matter.”

  
  


Dean shook his head. “What about Zeppelin?”

  
  


Cas blinked. “Oh.  _ Oh _ . So was that...were you sending me a message?”

  
  


Dean sighed in frustration. “Just--oh, fuck it.”

  
  


He pushed forward abruptly, closing the space between them all in a rush, pressing his mouth against Castiel’s. Love? They’d work it out. This was a good way of establishing the facts, right?

  
  


“Wait,” he pulled back, frowning. “You remember  _ everything  _ Gideon did?”

  
  


Castiel had to open his eyes again before he answered. “You mean do I remember pleasuring you orally?”

  
  


Dean blushed. “But that wasn’t  _ you _ , that was…”

  
  


Cas nodded. “Yes, Dean. But you should understand. Just because he experienced it doesn’t mean that I… As, for example, the fact that Jimmy had slept with his wife was not indicative of my experience.”

  
  


Dean blinked, searching Cas’ face. “So what you’re saying is it’ll be your first time.”

  
  


“You want me to do it now?”

  
  


Fresh heat climbed Dean’s throat. “I--no, Cas. I wasn’t thinking… I mean you just got back.”

  
  


“So we shouldn’t waste the time we have together?” Cas insisted. “Who knows when we’ll be separated again?”

  
  


Dean was about to protest again, complain that he wasn’t going to let anything come between himself and Cas, but instead his open mouth curled into a shout of surprise when Cas took him by the hips and pulled, sending Dean crashing onto his back on the mattress.

  
  


“We can’t--”

  
  


Castiel smothered his outcry with a kiss, and this time Dean didn’t resist. He tipped his chin up instead, parted his lips, and Castiel sank closer, engaging so that there was no question of his intent, his desire. Instead of another complaint, Dean surrendered, blending into the kiss with a moan, winding his fingertips into the fine hair at the back of Cas’ neck.

  
  


This was really happening, wasn’t it?

  
  


A force of nature with soft, eager lips, Castiel pushed him back into the mattress, settling his weight across Dean’s hips. If it was a daydream then it was surprisingly physical, completely lucid. Cas’ tongue chased his own, and Dean offered reciprocation eagerly, panting breathlessly as the kiss stretched, drawing breath from every miniscule parting of their lips.

  
  


By the time Castiel drew back to let Dean breathe he felt even more lightheaded than before, and it didn’t help at all that Cas was stripping off Gideon’s tan jacket and tugging at the borrowed blue tie to loosen it. Dean lay back, resting his hands on Cas’ hips and unable to resist salivating as Castiel worked down the front of his oversized shirt, tugging open buttons and baring golden skin. He wasn’t holding back.

  
  


“Are we… Are we going to...to…”

  
  


“Perform intercourse?” Castiel’s hands had moved to Dean’s shirt now.

  
  


“Fuck.”

  
  


“Well if you must be crass about it, then yes, we’re going to fuck.”

  
  


Dean swallowed hard. He’d never heard Cas say the word fuck before, and it was damn near intoxicating. He wanted to hear him say it a whole lot more. Right now, actually.

  
  


“Say it again.”

  
  


“We’re going to fuck, Dean. Like, um, bunnies. We’re going to fuck like bunnies. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  
  


Dean shrugged. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but somehow it was even better. “I’ll fuck you any way you want,” he agreed. “Jesus, Cas. Is this… Are you real?”

  
  


For a moment, Castiel stopped unbuttoning his shirt, his hands stilling over Dean’s belly, and when Dean caught his eyes he could have sworn there was a sparkle of tears to them. “I missed you, Dean. I missed you more than you can imagine.”

  
  


“I can imagine quite a bit,” Dean answered, softly.

  
  


Castiel resumed unbuttoning his shirt. “Well you don’t have to imagine anymore. I’ll show you.”

  
  


It was difficult to imagine that this was the same angel, although perhaps Cas had picked up a little something from Gideon. Either way, he didn’t seem hesitant at all to begin unbuttoning Dean’s fly, the pads of his fingers surprisingly soft where they skittered against his bare skin.

  
  


“And you're really...you're sure this is what you want?”

  
  


Castiel didn't answer. Instead, he wrapped his hand around Dean's cock, still trapped as it was in the confines of his underwear and let one firm, deliberate squeeze speak for itself.

  
  


“O-oh okay then. I can respect that.”

  
  


It still felt surreal. Dean wasn't sure he’d yet come to terms with the fact that Cas was back, nevermind the fact he loved him and wanted to turn that into something physical. Reality, however, had a way of insisting Dean acknowledge it. Like Cas teasing the head of his cock between finger and thumb really had a way of crystallising the situation in no uncertain terms.

  
  


This  _ was _ going to happen. It was happening right now.

  
  


Might as well get involved.

  
  


“Hey. You don't think you're just gonna do all the work, do you? Come on. I wanna see you, Cas.”

  
  


It really didn't matter that it was Gideon’s dick, not Jimmy’s. Dean still wanted to see it. Besides, hadn't Cas told him that angels could have symbiotic relationships with their hosts? It made sense to Dean, then, that Gideon was still there, present beneath the surface of the man he’d loved for years, unforgotten and unforgettable.

  
  


He’d have to ask Castiel about it later. For the time being, though, he helped prise Cas’ cock free of its denim prison, relieved to discover that he was already half hard. Any residual fear that Cas was faking this to make him feel better finally evaporated and Dean wrapped his hand around the girth of him, twisting his wrist upward as he offered an experimental stroke.

  
  


Castiel hissed like he’d never been touched that way before, and maybe he hadn't. He’d only been with that Reaper after all, and she’d...well Dean actually had no idea what she'd done with Cas, and was frankly far too jealous to ask.

  
  


He was happier not knowing, happier pretending that this was a first time thing, and moreover, it stopped Dean from lingering in guilt over things long in his past, and therefore completely impossible to change--like turning a freshly human Cas out on the street.

  
  


Better to focus on what was right in front of his nose. In a manner of speaking.

  
  


“We don't have to do anything more than this if you don't want to. You know that, right?” Dean asked, offering Cas more gentle strokes as he did, his calloused fingers feather light. “We can wait until you're ready.”

  
  


“I’m ready, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “Trust me. If this wasn't what I wanted, I would make it very clear.”

  
  


“In that case, you're gonna need the lube from the drawer. The sealed one at the back. It’s for...you know? It’s for butt stuff.”

  
  


Reluctantly Cas climbed up off Dean's lap, leaving behind their mutual handjobs to clamber across the bed. While he was preoccupied with digging around in the back of the cabinet drawer, Dean extricated himself from his jeans, kicking them off along with his shoes, socks, and undies. His unbuttoned shirt was tossed away with disdain, and he sat there naked by the time Cas turned back round, holding the tube of lubricant triumphantly in one hand, but ruining the look just a little on account of the two inches of erection that poked out beyond his waistline.

  
  


Dean grinned. “That's a good look for you. Sexy.”

  
  


Castiel saw right through him. “I suggest you unpackage this,” he insisted, tossing the lube into Dean's lap before beginning the process of stripping the rest of the way out of his clothes. Of course, Dean could hardly resist the temptation to watch, which meant that by the time Cas looked back at him, he’d barely even started peeling the plastic wrap off the outside of the bottle with his teeth.

  
  


It didn't matter much. Naked Cas was gorgeous when he was impatient. It was well worth being glowered at.

  
  


Dean wrestled the plastic off at last, but Cas was less than helpful, pressing his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck and kissing at the bare skin there. At last, though, he was able to thumb the button on the cap, and the aroma of chemicals hit his nose.

  
  


“Thank you.”

  
  


The bottle was snatched unceremoniously out of his hands, and Dean looked after it as Castiel twisted away, sat back on his ass with his legs spread out in front of him.

  
  


Dean almost laughed. It was ridiculous. It was obscene. It was…

  
  


Cas was reaching down between his legs with probing fingers, and as tempted as Dean was to watch - and he  _ was _ tempted - he reached in to stop him.

  
  


“Wouldn’t it be better if I do that for you?”

  
  


Castiel blinked, stunned. “You want to?”

  
  


“Are you kidding?  _ Of course  _ I want to. It’s not like it’s a nest of cobras or something, Cas. It’s  _ you _ .”

  
  


Dean moved closer, his hands moving between Cas’ thighs to gently prise them wider. Reconsidering, he reached over Cas’ shoulder to grab a cushion, pulling it between them. “First thing’s first. Lift your hips.”

  
  


Castiel obediently lifted his hips, and Dean tucked the cushion underneath him.

  
  


“Now just relax. I got all this, you hear me? I wanna make it good for you.”

  
  


Castiel relaxed like he’d been given the magic words to a relaxing spell. Which was great, but Dean wished someone would whisper them in  _ his _ ear.

  
  


Still, the next best thing was Cas looking at him with such open expectation that Dean just couldn't help himself. He wanted to do right by his angel, felt he owed him that much at least, and Gideon? The man he’d made was in there somewhere too.

  
  


It was as close to perfect as anything in Dean's life ever was.

  
  


Grabbing up the lube, he situated himself more comfortably between Cas’ thighs, doing his best and failing truly horribly at not feeling self conscious under the angel’s gaze while he lubed up his fingers. He was about to screw an angel, again, and it was hard not to feel like he was crossing some unspoken divine line in the sand.

  
  


But Castiel was gentle, he was encouraging, and when Dean slipped his first digit inside he made such a satisfying noise that it was hard for Dean to recall why he’d been so freaked out in the first place.

  
  


“Oh, you like that, huh?”

  
  


“Mm,” Castiel hummed, and then nothing else.

  
  


Grinning, Dean got to work, with just the one finger at first, and then quickly with two, finding that the longer he worked to tease Cas open the more impatient both of them became. Dean’s fear dissipated, and it was replaced with incredible need, and the sensation of having already waited far too long.

  
  


Besides, the way Cas’ tight muscles wrapped around his fingers, clinging every time he pulled back, would have sent anyone over the edge on its own, and the noises Cas was making…?

  
  


Dean hoped for Sammy’s sake his brother had the foresight to take Jack for a walk or introduce him to Metallica or something.

  
  


One more finger, and this time the stretch made Cas croon and Dean's cock ache fiercely.

  
  


“Please… Dean, please.”

  
  


Even if he might have wanted to spend a bit longer working Cas open, Dean wasn’t sure either of them could wait, or wanted to. As it was Dean was terrified that when he lined his cock up he might spontaneously orgasm there and then. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit.

  
  


He shouldn't have worried. As carefully as he worked himself inside, Cas was still an angel, and it seemed like it would take a little more than a thick cock to make him truly uncomfortable. Once the full width of the head was inside, the rest followed easily, helped of course by the excessive amounts of lube Dean had eagerly applied.

  
  


“Dean…”

  
  


“I got you, Cas.”

  
  


“No, I… I need you to move. Please.”

  
  


So no waiting to adjust then? They were just going to get right down to it. No problem. Sure, maybe Dean might have enjoyed a second or two to get used to the feeling, or admire the way his body seemed to merge fluidly with Castiel’s own, but friction was friction, and who could argue with a needy angel so recently back from the dead?

  
  


Repositioning himself, Dean angled his body so that he could nuzzle in against Cas that much more easily, pressing his nose against the angel’s pulse. When he began to thrust he could feel it racing against his own skin, fast and desperately hard. Cas’ breath hitched at the apex of each thrust, a staggering sound that all but ripped reality out from underneath Dean. It was hard to imagine, to remind himself, that this was still really happening.

  
  


Cas looped an arm around his waist, curled the fingers of his other hand in the fine hairs at the back of Dean's neck, and embraced him as the piston rhythm of his hips increased. It built, and as it built they both gradually lost control, breathing becoming steadily more haggard as the minutes passed. 

  
  


Dean, craving connection, pulled his hands against Cas’s cheeks and dragged their faces together, noses touching, mouths tangling wet, uncoordinated and breathless. Cas looked like sinful pornography, exposed thoroughly, pupils blown wide in the midst of their passion.

  
  


And when they came, one after another, Dean rode the wave of Cas’ clenching orgasm and watched his lover’s eyelashes flutter as he too was swept over the levee.

  
  


When he became aware of himself again, Cas had taken to cradling him lovingly against his chest, the mess they’d made ignored in favour of precocious snuggling.

  
  


“Is that what you had in mind when you came back from the Empty?” Dean asked drowsily.

  
  


“Is it what you had in mind when you made a model of me from clay?” Cas countered.

  
  


Dean groaned. “Touché. Just…just don't ever do that to me again, you hear me? I can't handle taking on any more art projects.”

  
  


“Hm,” Cas hummed.

  
  


“What hm?”

  
  


“Well, Dean… I was rather hoping you might indulge me, now that I'm back, in sharing some of your passions with me. Pottery seemed like it might be a good place to start…”

  
  


“My passions, huh? And you got  _ pottery _ from that?”

  
  


“Why? Is there something else you’d rather teach me instead?”

  
  


Dean had to hand it to the angel, he had a damn cheeky way of asking for round two.


End file.
